'What-is-the-matter?'
'That's what we want to know sir;' exclaimed the cook, a little let down by my coolness.
'Nothing that I know of,' I replied, except that I took the liberty of ringing my bell,' increasing in volume as I spoke.
'We thought some one was sick, sir,' said Sabina.
'I don't want to know what you thought,' I rolled out in emphatic base, 'I want the waiter! which is it?'—That neuter cut them to the heart.
But they rallied—a revolt was imminent. I had lived in the family one year, with my sister as housekeeper, and had never made a remark to the servants, it being my habit in life to submit to what was not my business, or clear out. But now—now, with Imprimatur on my forehead, a clutch in my mental fingers, and a hungry longing to rule free: ha! ha!—Let us see. This was a trying moment—The vessel had been signalled, and my colors were to be shown—so here they go—the flag of the little brig 'one-man-power,' with the motto 'Anvil or hammar answer hammar,' is unfurled.
Hemmed in by swelling indignation, whisperings and sullen looks, I jumped up and yelled in stentorian voice:
'Leave my room! How dare you answer the waiter's bell? Send me the waiter and clear out, every one of you!' and, with a sweeping wave of my hand, I stalked towards the door. Reader, did you ever see the sun chase a big cloud right off a green field, and, with no respite, drive it headlong away over beyond the horizon? Such was the rapid departure of my stupefied retainers. On reaching the door, I slammed it to with a violence that echoed through the hushed and palsied house.
Oh the benefit of a good slam—not a push—nor a quick shut—nor even a bump, all of which show still a want of firmness and decision—but a good old-fashioned 'bang' as though it had got into your throat and you could'nt breathe—that life depended on shutting out a flash of lightning and you hadn't time to wait—that the harder you impelled it against the doorway the sooner would end fast fleeting agony—that the nearer you got to what might be called an explosive shut: the more complete would be your safety, that if all your concentrated passion could be, not flung, (that is too weak) but hurled at that one partition a vacuum might be made in your room towards which good impulses might be drawn inversely. Many a good natured man who has been cornered by injustice has slammed off his anger, and is ready to forgive, but not give up. There is a dignity in this rapid developement of muscular power which admits of no surrender—the gauntlet has been thrown down, the chip has been knocked off the shoulder, the black flag is hoisted and skull and bones stand out in bold relief. There may be a calm, the wind may die out, but the monster waves once lashed up to a Titanic power move on of their own accord, and wash away the very vestige of resistance. Asking to be forgiven after slamming a door is like touching off a Rodman gun, and then calling out to the fort in front to 'look out' 'take care!' 'do get out of the way.' A first class slam is cumulative long after the noise has ceased—the nerves go on slamming—the valves of the heart flap to and from—the tympanum roils a revelrie to all the shattered senses, the offender slammed at, at once subsides from rage to fear; the mental barometer falls—and apprehension—the requiescat—is a don't know what is coming next. A bona fide, abandoned slam is a Domestic Earthquake.
I next sat down on my Mexican chair, and waited for the rapid hatching of the egg. A register led up from the kitchen into my room, and though never used, formed one of those abominable listening tubes that might be truthfully called family tale-bearers. This time, however, I had the pleasure of overhearing the following fragmentary evidence of a reaction: